Enyalie ar Ir
by KnHime-2
Summary: He couldn't blame every temptation on The Ring. (Frodo/fem!Sam, rated for slight adult content, nothing graphic)


_Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. _

_-Robert Frost. _

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><p>Their cloaks should have been sufficient for keeping them warm.<p>

If they hadn't gotten them wet.

But keeping your clothes dry is very difficult to do when you've just forded a creek that would have reached the waist of a human man, but submerged a hobbit up to his (or her) neck.

And that was why, that evening, Sam and Frodo found themselves shivering and lying huddled side-by-side before the fire.

"He did it on purpose." One discontented voice grumbled.

"Who? And what?" Frodo asked.

"Slinker led us through that cold fen on purpose, I'd wager."

"Honestly," The Ring Bearer sighed, but smiled in spite of himself. "You can't go blaming _every_ misfortune and discomfort this trip has to offer on Smeagol."

The lass beside him said nothing.

Frodo sniffled, then thought of a way to distract his dear traveling companion.

He turned his head to face her. "I can't feel my nose; is it blue?"

She looked at him and gave a tiny grin. "Hard to say in this light, Mister Frodo." She snickered. "But I don't think so, it actually looks rather red to me."

"Good, think how ridiculous I'd look. Red noses are slightly less silly looking."

She laughed a little harder.

They were quiet once more, before Frodo asked. "Where _is_ Smeagol anyway?"

"Who knows," The Gamgee lass mumbled. "Off on his own, as usual. Probably can't stand the light of a fire, like as not. Not that I particularly mind a reprieve from the little bugger, so long as one of us keeps an eye open."

He fought back a sigh. He supposed there was no use trying to redeem Gollum in Sam's eyes. But he didn't particularly blame her; the creature _was _rather frightening both in appearance and manner, very unsettling. He only wished she would try to see with a more open mind.

But then again, he reflected, Samantha Gamgee's judgment was nothing to scoff at; her simple common sense had saved him, Merry, and Pippin on more than one occasion, in times before the creation of The Fellowship, and the rare moments after when other, wiser heads were turned for a moment.

The memory of his two kin, and the other five, made him sigh.

He thought of the two he knew for certain were dead, Gandalf and Boromir, and the sharp pangs of the circumstances surrounding both demises brought a lump to his throat.

The empty dregs of longing for the company of the remaining members of their party was salt to the wound, along with the uncertainty that any of them were even still alive.

"Frodo?'

He opened his eyes and saw that his vision was blurry. He realized Sam was looking at him.

"I'm alright." He assured her.

For a moment, the weight he carried from his neck seemed to grow; both heavier and colder.

"I'm missing the others." He explained. "Missing… wondering…"

"So am I." She said. "Even the Brandybuck and Took." She finished with a brittle laugh. "Never thought I would."

Frodo realized he was smiling. "They irked you that much?"

"I suppose." Sam admitted. "Mostly thought they were a just couple of wastrels, before all this."

"I wasn't much better myself in my younger days, if you'll recall." He reminded her gently. "Before living with Uncle Bilbo."

"Well, perhaps." She acknowledged reluctantly. "But you outgrew it long before you came of age."

"I was _taught_ to do better." He clarified. "But anyways, your point being…?"

She grew somber. "Well, it's like my Gaffer says, 'You share all sorts of things with folk: smiles, laughter, tears, and they become the closest sort of kin you can imagine'."

He nodded. "And Merry and Pip certainly proved their mettle, time and time again."

As had she. But she was too humble to notice.

They were silent again.

A sharp breeze cut through them, making them shiver violently.

"I'll dunk that gangrel in the snow and see how _he_ likes it." The she-hobbit growled, remembering their absent guide as she turned to lie on her side.

Frodo did the same, facing her back, absent-mindedly placing his hand on her upper arm and rubbing it briskly to warm her. They were used to sleeping like this; many nights while traveling in the Misty Mountains were spent with eight of the nine members of the Fellowship curled in one great heap to share body heat while Gandalf sat apart. Once Frodo had been awoken when Pippin, moving in his sleep, flopped his hand onto his face like a slap.

"Well," Sam continued. "At least it's a dry sort of wind. Couldn't bear it if the air was damp as well as cold."

There she went, looking for the bright side of things again.

The minutes ticked on by, and the two slowly began to drift off. They eased into the foggy state that was half waking, half dreaming, where time and space had no relevance in one's mind.

Frodo pressed just a fraction closer.

In his mind, he was back in the shire, in those summers spent in Buckley Hall with his countless cousins, when the pain of losing his parents was dulled by laughter, sun, and rolling green hills. To days spent romping, swimming, exploring the woods surrounding Buckland.

He was also _here_, and _now_, and was dimly aware of his hand smoothing across Sam's arm, moving lightly back and forth.

Then he was at Bag End, settling in with his beloved, eccentric Uncle, who whetted his appetite for adventure, for seeing the world outside the Shire. he was sitting at his feet, hearing his voice, clear as day, regaling him with stories of his grand adventure.

In the present Sam exhaled, like a sigh of contentment.

He and Bilbo were coming home from a walk, and they saw that the gardener, Hamfast was hard at work deadheading the Bag End rosebush, and he was not alone.

Crouched a few feet away from him was a freckled young girl near Frodo's age, pulling up the weeds from the Geranium bed.

She saw them approaching, eyes widening, and jumped up to dart shyly behind her father.

Frodo had met Hamfast Gamgee before then, but not any of his children. The gardener greeted them, and gently nudged the girl out of her hiding place.

_What's there to be frightened of? _Frodo was thinking, as he had thought then at that moment. He could not understand why someone was so nervous at the sight of a kindly old gentlehobbit, and a young boy not quite in adolescence.

When the girl was introduced as Hamfast and Bell's second-to-youngest child, Samantha, or Sam as she was called, the lass barely made eye contact; just mumbled a polite greeting.

He decided to be her friend, if she allowed it, and to gently coax her out of the shell that kept her from truly enjoying this beautiful world.

If he would have had any idea at the time just how courageous this Halfling really was…

Meanwhile, his hand was moving, as if with a will of its own, down her arm, settling on her hip.

Sam's breath hitched.

He woke a little, closer to the surface of the waking world, yet his thoughts still muddled. He was now aware that her back was flush against his chest, and he could feel every swell and curve.

She didn't tell him to remove his hand.

His long fingers spread out, feeling the sleek curve of her hip under the material of her borrowed trousers.

His head was swimming, he felt warm, like after one too many glasses of a good vineyard.

Why wasn't she making him stop?

Slowly, her hand touched his, lacing their fingers together.

Her breathing grew harsher, or was it his?

They were of one mind, languidly moving their joined hands down the dip of her waist, over her ribs, across the planes of her belly.

Her heartbeat was reverberating throughout her body, as his no doubt was.

She let go, but his own hand kept moving, and she gave a shuddering sigh. His inquisitive digits tracing circles and shapes, drawing patterns on her skin through her shirt.

She had not so much lost weight on this journey as grow… firmer. Already strong, the endless walking, climbing, and scaling had built her muscles. She was more or less the same size as she had always been, but probably less soft.

The Ring on its chain, their surroundings, the coldness, was all forgotten. In that moment, he was in the warmth of his most cherished memories, and the lass nestled against him.

The warmth was strongest in his chest, in his belly, and grew as she pressed yet closer.

He was drawing farther away from his burdens, from his fears, from the strain put on him by this quest…

He leaned his head forward, blue eyes sliding open and spying a patch of bare skin on her neck amongst the strawberry blond curls.

He covered it with his lips in a soft kiss.

She inhaled sharply, almost a gasp.

He pressed his nose to her skin, overwhelmed with the scents beneath those of dirt and dried perspiration and river water; of black pepper, of fresh garden peas, of clover, of growth and living and…

Home.

His body was starting to react, in ways new and intense, a sensation drawing low in his belly like a cord growing taut, and there was no room for subtlety.

She most _certainly_ gasped, arching against him, his growing hardness pressing into the hollow of her back, and it took a great deal of strength to not rut against her.

He didn't even feel ashamed or embarrassed, only seeking more of the new sensations that were drawing him from the bleak reality of the present.

He breathed out, moving to pull her hair from her neck so he could kiss it again, feel her warm skin.

The faintest mew left her, barely audible above the sound of crickets and night animals. Its effect on him was like the strike of a match, igniting him further, his hand moving more fervently up her stomach to her chest, biting back a groan of disappointment when he felt only the cloth used to bind her breasts. So he moved back down to the intention of her waist, over her hip and the outside of her thigh, noting the solidness of her flanks.

Meanwhile, his mouth continued to trail up and down the curve of her neck, occasionally gathering her skin in light nips or smoothing over with his tongue, listening to her encouraging murmurs and whimpers. He moved to her ear, as she tilted her head to give him easier access, and she let out a faint squeak of surprise and pleasure as his tongue traced along the rim.

He was drowning. Drowning in need, raw and taut and burning. Drowning, in her sighs and moans and gasps, in the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair, in the agonizing tug at his groin. He could scarcely draw a breath, but didn't care.

His fingers splayed once more over her belly, burrowing into the spaces between her shirt buttons to touch her skin. Deciding it wasn't enough, he struggled to unfasten her buttons with one hand, erstwhile leaning forward to pepper kisses along her jaw and over her cheek. Finally Sam decided he was suffering enough and undid the buttons herself, exposing her stomach.

She let out a breathy groan as his hand immediately stroked the skin, feeling the rise of goose-bumps as the cold air braced against her bared flesh, feeling the subtle and sensual shift of her muscles.

She arched, rolling her hips backward against his painful awareness, and he had to fight off a whimper of his own, one of her legs reaching back to hook over his own.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

There was no Ring. No War. No Mordor. There was only them; a hobbit Man and Woman, and the sensations stirring between them.

His other hand pushed beneath and around her, trying to tug and pull her chest wrappings away, failing utterly, and settling for tracing a finger along the swells of her breasts and collar-bone, his other hand trailing down, fingers dipping into the waistband of her trousers with one goal in mind.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"_Frodo…!" _

It was a breathless intonation of surprise and consent. It _should_ have aroused him further.

Instead, the utterance of his name was like a splash of cold water on his nerves, shattering the golden illusion of this moment and he saw what he was doing.

_No…! _

He flung himself away, immediately extricating himself from her backwards embrace, gasping for air.

Shame wracked him; remorse too powerful for reckoning as he stared wide eyed and panting while his would-be lover fell limply without his supporting frame.

The glaze-eyed bewilderment in her face as she looked at him cemented it.

_What I did… what I was going to do… _

How _could_ he? How could he do such a dastardly thing? Taking advantage of his dearest and most loyal friend, sully the most honorable Hobbit lass to walk Middle Earth, like those wastrels he despised that roamed around seducing innocent women and shattering their hearts.

He couldn't blame this one on the Ring.

It was like a blow to the stomach.

_I'm a lech! A debaucher! What is wrong with me?! Oh Sam… My dear Sam…_

"…I'm so sorry!" he gasped. "I shouldn't have… Eru above!"

She blinked slowly, reality settling more gradually for her, her face flushed and eyes dark.

"Frodo… I… no." She shook her head. Averting her gaze with embarrassment, and the guilt cut him afresh.

"Sam…"

She turned away from him, lower lip wedged between her teeth as she re buttoned her shirt.

"No, please Sam, look at me!"

She did, and the look on her face couldn't quite be described as the same crushing remorse he felt, but simple embarrassment and bewilderment.

"I'm greatly sorry, Mister Frodo, for letting that get out of hand." She said softly.

_Mister_ Frodo.

She was already creating a barrier, reminding the both of them of their differences in station, and even worse, she blamed herself for what happened.

He shook his head vehemently. "No Sam! It was not your fault; all the fault lies in me. Don't you understand?"

She was far from convinced. "I could've stopped you… I shouldn't 'ave led you on so. "

He gently grasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You aren't listening: _I_ was the main instigator, _I'm_ the one who should be apologizing, and you were simply obliging…"

"'Obliging'?" Suddenly her demeanor changed. She gave him a small shove, soft eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

"Is that all you think I was doing?! _Obliging_ you?!" She huffed furiously in that sharp, reprimanding tone of hers that, up till now, had never been directed at him. He only sat in surprise.

"What kind of girl do you _take_ me for?! You really think I'd cross that line? Impugn my own honor and virtue just to _oblige_ someone?! Even you?!"

So then, _she_...?

The implications stole the breath from his lungs. Oh what a fool he was.

He lowered his gaze sheepishly. Of course; he should have known better. Why did he even consider it? Sam had done many things for him, for others, but there were some lines even she wouldn't cross.

"You're right," He conceded. "You would never do such a thing, and I'm a wretch for even thinking you would."

After an uneasy silence, she moved closer and took his hands in her own, anger gone.

"I'm not one to hold a grudge." She said, giving him an faint smile. "I forgive you for that, although I should still be sore at you."

He tried to smile back, wondering if this meant things between them could ever be the same.

"I only wish you'd show better judgment." Sam continued. "I mean, trying to…well… with _me." _

Something about her words gave him pause. He frowned. "What d'you mean exactly by, 'with me'?"

"I mean nothing by it." She muttered, looking away again. "Just that… seeing as I'm the only lass for miles and miles, and you needed comfort; you don't have to hide that from me."

Frodo's eyes widened, completely aghast. "_What_?"

She went on heedless. "Why, you couldn't _possibly_ see me… in that way."

Now he understood, and it was his turn to be angry. Not because of what she was implying about him.

Did she really think so little of herself? That she wasn't truly desirable? That he wouldn't have chosen her above any other woman, Hobbit or otherwise?

Certainly, she didn't have the immediately obvious beauty of some, but that didn't make her any less lovely.

Afterwards, Frodo would blame what happened next on the upbringing from the vociferous Bilbo.

"How can you _say_ such things of yourself Samantha Gamgee?!" He shouted. "Can you not see that I consider you the most wonderful, loving, and _exquisite_ being imaginable, and that any Hobbit would be a fool not to want you for his own?!"

The words poured from his lips without heed to his brain.

But the moment they were spoken he knew he truly meant them, with all his heart.

Her head snapped up and she stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.

That was it. There was no hope of their friendship returning to what it was, but he didn't care anymore, he wanted her to know the truth.

He said nothing more, but looked imploringly at her.

They sat thus for an agonizing period of time, only a few minutes, as she tried to put sense to what she'd heard.

But before she could make clear her emotions on this…

"Why does Master yell?"

A shrill voice cut through like the scrape of a steak knife across a plate.

Both Halflings turned to see their emaciated guide creeping out of the trees and into the clearing.

"Hobbitses must be careful, must be quiet. Nasty Orcses…"

"We _know_ about the nasty orcses." Sam snarled irritably, clearly much annoyed by this untimely interruption, and this time Frodo could relate.

Gollum looked to her plaintively. "Why is Lady Hobbits so cruel to us? We're not sneaking, and still she yells."

"Never mind that." She snapped in response. "Let's just be off then."

Frodo stared helplessly as she stood, gathering her pack.

And so they left the place, traveling as Gollum preferred to, under cover of night, and the moment was lost.

But only for now.

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><p><em>The shippers credo; "You two exhaust me!" <em>

_The title loosely translates to Elvish for "Memory and Desire"._

_I may write a follow up, but not promising anything. _


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